


origami roses

by weekend_conspiracy_theorist



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: F/F, this is super fuckin' cute you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 12:34:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5967570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekend_conspiracy_theorist/pseuds/weekend_conspiracy_theorist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iris West gets a secret admirer. There are three suspects--but none of them are the one she's hoping for.</p><p>(But then again, maybe she's wrong.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	origami roses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissSugarPlum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissSugarPlum/gifts).



> This fic is for my girl, my internet friend with the crazy writing chops, the cutest l'il bun I ever did see. I love her, and I love the two nerds I've written for her, and I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Happy Femslash February!

There's a rose on Iris's desk.

 

Well.

 

There's a pink _origami_ rose on Iris's desk. She glances around, sees only those few other early risers who like to try and get work done before CCPN gets busy—Larry, Linda's lowkey meninist desk-neighbor; Veronica, the writer of a viciously feminist opinion column who is already halfway through her waking hours by the time 9 AM rolls around; Stewart, the staunch evolutionist who is known more for his off-time blogging than the pieces he writes for the paper.

 

(Iris herself is not particularly fond of early rising, but with the recent uptick in meta and Rogue activity, she tries to get what work done she can in the mornings. That way she can provide her support and her pen when things inevitably go to shit sometime around three in the afternoon.)

 

She sets her bag down, settles slowly into her chair. She almost expects to pick up the rose and find herself suddenly stuck in quicksand or dying from contact poison—but there's just a square piece of paper, slightly messy folds. Folded, unfolded, refolded to get it just right. (Or a vaguely lopsided version of right.)

 

When she lifts it, brow furrowed just slightly in confusion, she finds a note on a separate slip of paper, printed in tiny font. "You're the most incredible person I know," she reads, feels a smile teasing at the corners of her lips. Secret admirers are kind of creepy, on the one hand, but on the other—well.

 

Flattery gets a girl places, you know?

 

She grabs a post-it, scribbles out, "THANK YOU!!" and underlines it like three times, sticks it in the corner of her desk. Admirer will see it sometime during the day, she's sure—more, they'll see the smile that she can't quite seem to suppress.

 

When Linda comes in, maybe an hour or so later, she's got a coffee in each hand, her sunglasses pushed up onto her head—she's somehow both adorable and effortlessly elegant, even when she sticks her tongue out rocker style and thrusts one of the coffee cups into the air, knees slightly bent.

 

"I've got your second hit of the day!" She declares, breezes over. Pauses halfway through setting the coffee on the corner of Iris's desk to study the post-it. "Make sure to dedicate your Pulitzer to me," she adds, distracted, and her grip is loose enough for Iris to carefully steal the cup from her grasp. "What's with the thank you?"

 

"I have a secret admirer," Iris boasts, motions to the origami rose—and there's this moment where Linda moves her sunglasses to her nose just so she can lower them and peer over the frames dramatically. This moment where Iris feels all fluttery and awkward and _wishes_ , harder than she's ever wished anything before, that Linda had been in the office that morning.

 

That the flower could have come from her.

 

"Ginchy." Linda pulls her glasses off, straightens with a bright grin on her face. "Who are our suspects?"

 

"Larry—" Linda makes a face, and Iris can't help but agree— "Veronica, and Stew. My money's on Stew; bloggers love bloggers, right?"

 

Linda shrugs, plucks off the post-it so she can steal its place on the corner of the desk. "You're a blogger. Do you love bloggers?"

 

Iris blows out a breath, takes a sip of her coffee. (Perfect, just the way she likes it.) "Good point. Bloggers are pretentious dickwads, no offense to Stew. Or, at least, only a little offense to Stew."

 

Linda snickers, takes a gulp of her own drink, swings her leg. She's gazing around thoughtfully, obviously casing their suspects. "Obviously," she says, something just-slightly-off in her tone, "Veronica is the best option."

 

"Yeah, sure," Iris says, not quite able to mask the curiosity in her tone. "Is there something wrong?"

 

"No, just." Linda crumples her cup (empty, she'd been drinking it on her way to the office), plasters a big smile on her face as she leans down to toss it in the waste bin under Iris's desk. "I thought she wasn't working today, to be honest. Threw me off for a second."

 

"Her sister's kid got sick; they had to postpone their visit." Iris tentatively smiles back, and Linda nods, laughs slightly.

 

"That would explain it," she agrees, breezes over to her desk after replacing Iris's post-it with careful fingers.

 

***

 

There's another rose- this time neater, fewer mistakes, on pale blue paper- when Iris comes in the next day. She feels the smile spreading even as she steps forward, wondering that Admirer had somehow known she would be in today, a Saturday with no big events happening around town.

 

She's holding the little flower in one hand, biting her lip as she tries not to be disappointed that there's no note, when Linda speaks.

 

"I was planning to do this for, like, a whole week, you know?"

 

Iris spins on her heel. (Her _heart_ is suddenly pounding, her breath flown out of her chest, she can't—) Linda is standing by the door, just where Iris wouldn't see her in her periphery as she entered. Her hair curls perfectly around her face, her dress soft and floaty and capital-R Romantic, and Iris thinks maybe the flower falls from her hand but she's too focused on Linda to notice.

 

"A whole week of waking up early, sneaking in to leave a rose, and sneaking back out, all before you got in. But you see," Linda explains, clasps her hands together near her chin with a pained expression on her face, "Veronica was not supposed to be here yesterday. She is scarily functional and elegant and intelligent and her face, her _face_ could sell enough stamps to rescue the Post Office, even in this digital age! I couldn't let you build your admirer up in your head with the face of a blonde, leggy goddess superimposed over them. So I'm ending this now."

 

She lowers her hands to her sides, squares her shoulders. "Iris West, you are incredible, amazing, stunning, and a million other adjectives that are both great things and not nearly descriptive enough to encapture the ethereal creature come to Earth that you are, and I would love it if you would go out with me." Linda pauses, adds, "On a date. An actual facts, hella gay outing. No hetero here."

 

Iris breathes out. "Oh my god."

 

Linda takes a step forward. "I, um. Is that a yes?"

 

"Oh my _god_."

 

Linda moves forward, wringing her hands, hovers just within arm's reach of Iris and smiles a smile that's bright and nervous and beautiful. "Is that a yes?"

 

"You made me roses," Iris says, dumbfounded. "And you, you said—"

 

"Date me, Hot Stuff," Linda teases.

 

"Oh my god!" Iris throws her arms around Linda's neck, squeals. "Yes!"

 

Linda wraps her arms around Iris's waist, spins her around as best she can. "Yes?!?"

 

"I hoped it was you," Iris confides, feeling giddy, her fingers gripping tight at Linda's shoulders. "Thank god it wasn't _Larry_."

 

Linda's laughter rings in her ears, ecstatic and bright and better than any other sound Iris has ever heard.

 


End file.
